


Dammerung

by Maewn



Series: We are not the heroes [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Animal Death, Gen, Hunting, butchering of animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: A day in the life of a hunter, deep within the forests of Falkreath hold.





	Dammerung

Kaama studies the smooth rib bone, then picks up a stick of charcoal, pulled from her firepit hours ago, when she had scraped the ashes away to rebuild the fire anew.

She’d caught a deer earlier in the day, and spent much of the daylight hours, gutting and cleaning the beast before she’d butchered it, salted most of the meat to begin preserving it, and set a roast above her fire.

It’s been a busy day, she thinks. A good day, a fine harvest.

She’s made her offering already, a thanks for a prosperous hunt and the means to feed her stomach and some of those in Riverwood once she returns.

Kaama traces a design along the edge of the bone, tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrates. Something simple, she thinks. Dorthe had asked her for something similar to the _Schutzmarke,_ that Kaama wears at her waist, a symbol of protection against the spirits that wander the world, searching for their lost bodies.

Kaama has only met three _Geister_ , one of whom was her aunt. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

A wolf howls somewhere in the distance, beyond the _Geisterzaun_ that Kaama sets up every night that she camps outside the confines of a village without proper walls.

Kaama sets the bone aside, reaching for her knife, unsheathing it, the blade gleaming in the wan moonlight. It is a sickle moon tonight, giving little light, but enough for Kaama to see her eyes reflected in the blade’s edge.

The solitary wolf’s song is echoed by others. A pack. Kaama can’t say she’s surprised. She had buried the guts of the deer far away from her camp, but had figured that it would attract wolves. Easy food after all.

She listens intently, crouched, her back to the rock face where she’d made camp. The better to defend herself if she had only three sides to worry about, her Onkel Caran had always said.

He’d been a hunter till the day he died, caught off guard by a sabrecat in the jungles of Valenwood. Kaama is grateful that sabrecats don’t venture this far south. She hates their sharp fangs and wicked intelligent eyes.

The pelts are thick, however and such things are valued if one has the courage to hunt the beasts. Kaama is perfectly content to hunt deer, elk and the occasional wolf. Sometimes vampires if the need arises.

Valenwood is home to at least three vampiric bloodlines, and Kaama knows the signs of each, as her father, Erfang, was a vampire hunter, and had hoped that she would take up the trade when he grew too old.

But she had disliked the rigid rules and oaths that many of his order swore upon entering, and she was devoted to Y’ffre, not Stendarr. Either way, Kaama knows the best ways to kill a vampire, and the ones here in Skyrim are far different from the ones back in Valenwood.

They are not as cunning nor as Bonsamu, the Yekef, or the Telboth bloodlines but they are fast, striking with terrible strength, best fought at a distance.

Kaama scans the darkness, looking for the gleam of lupine eyes. The howling of the wolves has faded, the pack moving further west. They’ve probably picked the carcass clean, she thinks.

She’d taken a few of the bones, along with the antlers, and left the rest. The pelt has been scraped clean and is well salted and staked to the ground to dry, skin side up.

Kaama waits another half-hour, judging the time by the rising of the moon before she picks up her bone and charcoal again.

An owl hoots in the trees, and Kaama catches sight of its soaring shape taking flight into the ebony sky.

She touches her _Shutzmarke,_ a sign to avert the ill omen carried on the owl’s tawny wings. The _D_ _ä_ _monen-Eule,_ the demon owl.

It ate the souls of the unwary, her _Mutti_ always said.

A log in the fire shifts, sending sparks spiraling upwards through the gray smoke plume, bringing with it the pungent scent of burnt pine. Kaama finishes her sketching, setting the charcoal aside in favor of her carving knife.

She’s always liked carving, learning it at her Tante Pallas’s feet when she was a little girl. She’s made a living off selling the carvings, setting the money aside in the small cache that she had buried across from the mill in Riverwood. Sealed inside a waterproofed chest of sturdy oak, the coin had survived five years of being underwater for months at a time.

Kaama isn’t sure of what she wants to do with the money. She has no need for fine things, for silks or jewels. What little she has on hand goes to buying food when game is scarce.

She carves the rib, following the lines and curves she’s set down as as she thinks.

Perhaps...she muses, she could make a house, a small one, of course, for she doesn’t need much space, and there is still much room within Riverwood’s walls.

She loves the wilderness, and Riverwood is as close to the wilds as one can be while still being in a village. The White River rushes past the village and the sound of its rushing, churning waters reminds Kaama of Valenwood during the heavy rains that wreathed the waking world in warm grey veils.

But she wishes to teach her apprentice more of the craft, and it would be easier if she lived in the village as Dorthe did.

She carves another line into the bone, carefully working the blade across, deepening the lines made of charcoal. She had chosen to carve a _Hirsch,_ a stag, as it would be a good protector. Kaama’s own _Sh_ _ut_ _zmarke_ bears the visage of the Senche, a large beast similar to the sabrecat, with a pale coat and dark spots.

She’s only seen one once, as the Senche often hid in the trees, hunting like wraiths in the night. On her twelfth name day, Onkel Caran had taken her hunting and she had seen a Senche stalking through the high boughs of the trees.

“She’s old, Kaama,” he had said, green eyes watching the Senche walk with regal poise through the darkness. “We’ll leave her be. Never fight the old Senche, they are wise to our tricks. The younger ones are more foolish, but they are quicker and faster.”

“Have you ever caught a Senche?” Kaama had asked.

“One or two,” Onkel Caran had said, grinning, tapping his cheek where a deep scar lay, “They’re sneaky bastards, don’t you forget.”

“Yes, Onkel,” Kaama had said with a cheerful smile.

Kaama has never managed to catch a Senche, and nor she thinks, would she want to. They are her Guardian totem now. It would be ill luck to do such a thing, when she carries its image upon her _Shutzmarke._

She nudges another log into the fire with her foot, pausing her carving to do so. She doesn’t want to accidentally get blood on the bone. Then she’d have to start over with a new one and burn the old to avert the ill luck given by such carelessness.

The flames gnaw greedily on the log, and Kaama resumes her work. If she was to build a home, the best place would be at the village’s northern edge, where there is more room. Though she cringes at the thought of living in one of those wood and thatched houses.

Houses in Valenwood are far different from those is Skyrim.

In Valenwood, the trees are sung to shape the home, persuaded by warm song and gentle melodies over time. It can take years to properly sing a tree. Kaama’s cousin Thirn had taken over fifty years to sing their home, but Kaama thinks that’s because Thirn is intent on perfection.

Kaama doesn’t need perfection, she just needs a home.

Thankfully, she’s carried a seedling from her parents’ home for nearly ten years, the seed lying dormant in her pocket until the day she decides to set it in the earth.

It won’t be the same as in Valenwood, she knows, but the seed will adapt to the harshness of Skyrim’s climate. Though, she notes, Riverwood and Falkreath are noticably warmer than the rest of Skyrim but that didn’t mean that they were exempt from snowfall.

Kaama shivers at the thought and inches closer to her fire. She dislikes winter, especially snowstorms. Snow on the ground she could tolerate, but having it hitting her in the face, wind roaring about her ears.

She shivers again. Bosmer ears are sensitive and the cold makes them ache. It’s why when winter does come, she finds her way to Riverwood or Falkreath and stays there until the snow vanishes.

She occupies her time with teaching Dorthe bone-craft if she’s in Riverwood, and training Falkreath’s guards when she is there. It keeps her from becoming _verr_ _ü_ _ckt_ and gives her something to do.

She squints at the lines she’s made, brushing away errant bits of bone, and decides it’s good enough for the moment, tucking it away in her pack and sheathing her knife.

The moons are at their apex in the sky, high overhead, dim light shed like dust from beaten clothes in springtime.

Kaama stands, stretching, and takes a walk around the perimeter, making sure that nothing else lurks in the darkness beyond the reach of flamelight.

There is nothing, Y’ffre be thanked and Kaama returns to the camp, checks the _Geisterzaun_ again and settles in for a night’s rest.

Next morning, she wakes to the dim light of dawn cresting the horizon, and goes about her morning prayers.

She lays her offering bowl down, nestled amidst the dirt and fallen leaves. It is made of carved red stone, native to her birthplace.

Kaama digs through her pack to find the proper herbs, layering them into the bowl’s depths. Lavender, elves ear, frost mirriam. No herbs of Valenwood are ever burned here, only those herbs that she has found fallen and uncut by her knife.

“ _Möge Ehre über der sein, O Y’ffre, Herr der Winde und Wälder,”_ she begins, placing a cut of meat upon the herbs, and igniting the offering. _“Ich bitte Sie um Hilfe und Schutz, weiser Y’ffre, heute auf meiner Jagd,”_ she continues, and bows her head, breathing in the sharp scent of roasting meat and herbs. _“Bitte nimm mein Angebot an.”_

She sits there until the flames have consumed everything, leaving only ash. That she buries along with the ashes of her fire as she packs up her camp, rolling the deer pelt up and strapping it across her back.

Kaama heads northeast, towards Riverwood; she might as well plant the seed now, before the rainy season began. It would give the seed time to sprout and flourish before autumn came.

She skirts the area where she’d left the deer’s carcass, catching sight of clean bones through the trees as the sunlight begins to pierce past the treetops.

There is little game to be found as she travels, but she is almost an hour out from Riverwood when she spots a small doe, limping along behind a few others.

Kaama sizes it up. It doesn’t look too old, and certainly is small enough that Kaama may carry it to Riverwood with little trouble.

She quietly and swiftly strings her bow, fits an arrow to the string, and slinks closer.

The doe is injured, one leg clearly half-broken, dragging along behind it. A mercy, Kaama decides and draws back and looses the arrow.

It’s a clean shot, straight through the doe’s spine, and the creature crumples, sending the others scattering in fear.

Kaama unstrings her bow, returning the bowstring to her pouch before kneeling beside the doe with her knife in hand.

She works quickly, cutting past the skin, spilling out the entrails and organs that none but the wolves and other beasts of the wilds will eat. Once the doe is cleaned, Kaama briskly sews up the skin so no blood will leak while she travels and hoists it over her shoulder.

She can butcher the beast when she’s in Riverwood and there will be others that have uses for bones and sinews.

The pelt, she thinks, might make a good pair of slippers, or a nice rug. Not as good as a bearskin rug, but Kaama would rather not hunt a bear. They are harder to take down and building traps to catch them is often more hassle than it’s worth. Luckily, bears are uncommon in this part of the country, living more in the eastern and northern parts than the south.

She looks to the sun, gauging its trajectory to judge the time. Almost midmorning, if her guess is right.

Kaama sets a steady pace, finding the road leading north empty, which is not unusual.

The guards at the gate nod to her as she strides into Riverwood.

“Good day, Kaama,” Alvor calls over the roar of the bellows. “Dorthe’s been looking for you.”

Kaama bares her teeth in a smile. “Where?”

“By the mill,” Alvor says. “You had a good hunt then?” he gestures towards the doe.

Kaama nods and goes to find her apprentice.

Dorthe waves excitedly as Kaama approaches. “Kaama! You’re back!”

Kaama raises one eyebrow, setting down the doe to cut open the stiches she’s made. There’s a designated place within the village to butcher and Kaama drags the doe there, setting it up so the blood will drain and begins butchering.

“It’s rather small,” Dorthe says, holding out a pan for the cuts of meat.

“ _Es war eine Gnade,”_ Kaama tells her, dropping a slice of glistening red into the pan.

“A mercy?” Dorthe translates. “Why?”

“ _Gebrochenes Bein,”_ Kaama says.

“Oh,” Dorthe says, “Okay. At least you made it quick.”

Kaama gives a sharp nod, slicing off another chunk of meat.

It’s noon when Kaama has finished butchering the doe and cut away the pelt and scraped it clean, allowing it to dry.

“I will stay in village,” Kaama says as she washes her hands in the river, watching the red streak away in the water. The Norse words are difficult to speak, the vowels and consanents stuck in her mouth like rocks. “You learn better if I am here.”

“Really?!” Dorthe squeals, hugging her. “For how long?”

“Long enough,” Kaama says. _“Lass mich jetzt gehen.”_

“Right,” Dorthe says, loosening her grip and grinning. “Thank you, Kaama.”

“Be dutiful student,” Kaama says. “No lollygagging.”

“Of course!” Dorthe beams. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I am not a native speaker of German. I've been using Google translate. Hopefully I've not butchered the language too terribly.   
> The prayer that Kaama says is this "May honor be upon you, O Y’ffre, lord of the winds and forests. I ask for your aid and protection, wise Y’ffre, in my hunt this day. Please accept my offering."


End file.
